


Up In Smoke (Three Boys, 1 Bong)

by meiratyn



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: For sure though, Gen, High school/college au I haven't decided yet, Joe "Bong Rip" Trohman, M/M, Marijuana, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-25 01:48:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16651984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meiratyn/pseuds/meiratyn
Summary: Finally going steady with his brand new boyfriend, Patrick decides to introduce him to one of his only friends, a man with a glorious head of curly hair, a Roor bong, and enough weed to last him through the end of the world.





	Up In Smoke (Three Boys, 1 Bong)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for clicking on this! 
> 
> This was born first as a joke in a conversation to a friend of mine, and then I went ahead and wrote it out. I'm not sure yet if this is going to be part of an eventual high school/college AU, but in the meantime I hope you enjoy it!

There were fewer things in this world Patrick was finding that he regretted more than introducing his boyfriend to one of his only other friends. 

Less than two seconds and an exaggerated sniff paired with a wink in Patrick’s direction and Pete was leaning over the bench to Joe. 

“Whoa man, you gotta hookup?” He asked with a low bark of a laugh and Patrick's ears burned. He had really hoped Pete wasn't going to comment on that. 

To which Joe shook his glorious head of curls and replied with a flat “Nah, I am the hookup.” 

And Patrick felt like he blinked and all of a sudden he was in the back of Joe's shitty van with the two of them, his  _ new _ boyfriend he still wanted to try to impress and his newish friend who was proving to be a better friend than certain other people who wouldn't be named. 

Watching Joe break up a sticky nug and pack it into the comically large bowl of his bong, sitting on the floor amongst crumbs and trash and fast food wrappers, Patrick couldn't help but wonder if he was about to make a pretty fucking big mistake. 

“Wo _ ooow _ ,” came Pete’s voice from somewhere next to him, thick arm wrapping around his waist and drawing him close. “I didn't know  _ you _ smoked.” 

“A-all the time,” Patrick huffed, voice cracking, panicked.  _ Why the hell had he said that?  _

Joe was  _ right there _ and he knew for a  _ fact _ that Patrick had smoked with him exactly twice and the first time nothing happened except an asthma attack and the second time reduced him to a hyperventilating puddle in the corner of the van needing to be talked down by a too-calm and sage-like Joe. 

But for whatever reason, he kept Patrick's secret safe. Didn't out him as a dirty  _ liar.  _

He could do this. He'd be fine.

He'd smoked before. He knew what to expect. 

But all of this came crashing down when Joe handed him the newly packed bong and a lighter with a wink. 

“Greens for you, then.” 

So much for Joe keeping his secret safe. 

This was his fucking form of payback, his way of outing Patrick as a liar without having to dirty his hands in the process. 

His eyes burned as he stared down the stem of Joe’s bong,  _ determined _ not to embarass himself in front of his new boyfriend, in front of Pete, who he wanted so badly to think that he was cool. 

By some miracle, muscle memory kicked in as Patrick pressed his lips to the rim and flicked the lighter,  _ somehow  _ not fucking it up,  _ somehow  _ managing to only light a small part of the bowl like Joe did. 

But that was the easiest part of it. 

Surprised by how he hadn't managed to fuck it up, Patrick gasped and took in too deep a breath, nearly toppling the bong over as he set it to the floor and scrambled for his inhaler, desperately remembering Joe's advice as he tried not to cough. 

_ Blow it all out before you cough dude. _

_ You don't wanna cough with smoke in your lungs man. It hurts so fuckin bad.  _

Sputtering exhales, smoke billowing from his mouth and nose and  _ burning _ and he couldn't hold back anymore and he was coughing, hacking, doubled over like the practically first time smoker that he was.

Tears streamed from his eyes, embarrassed, humiliated, been taught his lesson, wheezing and unable to get a breath in. 

But gentle hands were on him, pulling him back up, taking the inhaler from his hand and he heard a  _ pop _ and a swishing and Pete's voice soft telling him to open his mouth before pressing his inhaler to his lips and squeezing down the trigger. 

The first puff cleared his lungs and he could  _ breathe _ again, and he took his inhaler back from Pete for a second puff, before setting it down. 

A few coughs to clear his throat and he wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. 

“You okay? That was a huge rip,” Pete laughed, rubbing his back. 

“Oh he's fine,” Joe piped in, monotone voice carrying just an edge of sarcasm to it, “He takes rips like that  _ all the time _ , dontchu Pat?”

“Don't call me that,” Patrick muttered, voice hoarse, lump in his throat from the shame and embarrassment of it, arm heavy as he wiped his eyes and leaned back, back, back…

Until he felt his shoulders collide with Pete's. 

In almost slow motion, he turned his head to his boyfriend, intending to scoot the bong over to him, but finding himself caught so briefly on the shape and color of his eyes. 

Like the tar in Joe's bong. 

But that's not romantic so he doesn’t say that. 

Instead he twitched and tried to pick up the bong, relieved when Pete took it over from him along with the lighter, relieved he didn’t spill it over the back of Joe's van like last time. 

He closes his eyes, rubbing at his temples, their voices in conversation a background drone, vaguely aware of the sound of the clicking of a lighter and the bubbling bong somewhere to his left. 

A  _ clink _ and Pete coughing, and Patrick tastes and smells the smoke and covers his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, coughing into his arm. 

“‘S some strong fuckin’ shit, man,” he hears Pete sputter, followed by the scraping of glass on metal and he opens his eyes and sees a black bowl and Joe looking vaguely annoyed and he feels like he should say something, wants to say something--

But he can’t clear his head enough to say what he want, ripped between panic and anxiety, wanting to save the situation, but to speak is too much for him, and all he can do is bury his face in his hands, grateful that Pete is solid against him, that Pete keeps him grounded in reality. 

And by some miracle Joe hasn’t said anything, hasn’t chided Pete the way he would tell off Patrick for doing the same thing. Instead there is the clicking of a lighter, the bubbling of a bong that seems to last forever. 

He hears Pete chuckle and doesn’t need to open his eyes to know Joe is probably clearing the bowl, the way he does when he shows off. 

A fluid exhale, only the low rumble as he clears his throat, the smoke billowing through the van and Patrick wheezes as he fumbles with his inhaler, eyes screwed tightly shut. 

Joe tells him to hang on, he hears the creaking of a window being rolled down. He hears Pete ask if that’s not a little risky and then he hears the annoyance in Joe’s voice, that it’s not worth suffocating Patrick over, and he’s embarrassed, he’s humiliated that he’s being exposed for his lie. 

But Pete doesn’t comment on it past that and neither does Joe and when he finally does open his eyes, Joe’s packing another bowl and Pete’s checking his phone. 

And somehow, that’s enough for Patrick to relax, that this isn’t going to be a failure, that his new boyfriend and his newish friend will somehow like each other. 

It isn’t until a couple hours later, when Joe’s dropped Pete off and is taking Patrick back home, that he finds out the truth. 

“You can do a hell of a lot better than Pete  _ fuckin _ Wentz,” Joe mutters to Patrick whose slumped back against the passenger seat. 

And those words are like a cold punch in his gut, but he’s too tired, feeling too much like a stupid kid to have any witty retorts, or even to have the energy to tell Joe to go fuck himself. 

But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to, because Joe doesn’t hold back with letting him know what he thinks. 

“Rude, didn’t care about you” among the snippets he made out. 

Patrick just closed his eyes again, shoulders slumping, lump in his throat. Humiliated. 

“I’m sorry.” 

And Joe slaps him on the shoulder. 

“Nah. Smoke some more if you’re gonna mope like that. And next time you bring home a boy to me, Patty, teach him to corner a bowl first.” And when Patrick opens his eyes to look over at Joe, Joe’s meeting his eye and smirking. 

“Don’t call me that,” he says quietly, but silently, he’s grateful to Joe, that he’s a good friend despite his other… habits. 

But that wasn’t necessarily to say that Patrick agreed with him about Pete.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this! I sincerely hope you enjoyed it, found it funny, educational, or what have you. If you liked it, would you please consider leaving kudos or a comment about what your favorite part was, or what you liked? I would really appreciate it. <3 
> 
> Thank you again!


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